CWWC challenge 3

i am a narnian, and i used all 3 prompts.

Everything was gone.
My entire life is literally ashes and a couple of tiny stubborn fires left in the rubble.
Once I was told I could, I went and poked around for anything that was left.
All I found was my diary and one of my mom’s finger bones. The former delighted me, the latter freaked me out too much to look for anything else.
I thumbed through the diary at the shelter. From the words I could piece out from the scorched paper, it was my diary from when I was nine.
I find a different me in those pages.
I find the me who had gone to summer camp in Maine, and I got lost in the woods on the overnight camp-out, but my best friend Carlye found me. The me who wrote her name on the bottom left corner of the eastern wall. The me who drew the pyramid and eye picture that became the cabin crest, and was hung over the porch.
Later in the diary, I find the me who left camp and went to a Little Big Town concert when I won a radio station contest, and brought my mom, dad, and Carlye, and we got T-shirts and got our CDs autographed.
When I finish the diary, I sigh and run my fingers through my long, smooth dark hair.
I glance around at the white brick walls. They seemed to radiate sadness. Fear. Regret.
However, I see a sharpie message on one of the bricks. I walk over to read it.
Ask no questions and you’ll get no lies, it reads.
“How is that supposed to help?!” I scream.
I punch the brick.
It isn’t pleasant.
I held my bleeding knuckles to my chest, breathing hard, as if I’d just run up ten flights of stairs, contemplating whether or not to punch it again.
“The wall won’t break. But it’ll break you.”
I turn towards the voice. It’s a boy, with artfully styled black hair and perfect eyes.
“My sister broke. She had five broken bones when she took her first smack at it. She couldn’t stop hitting.” He looks away.
I look at my hands.
They twitch. They want the wall.
The boy walks over and, knowing what he’s about to do, I nod, so he takes my hands. He gently pulls me to the centre of the room.
I yelp as my hands start dragging my body back to the wall.
“It takes a bit of practice.” The boy says, restraining me. “But you’ll get it eventually.”
“What does the message mean?!” I choke out. I don’t even know why it was paining me so much.
“Look closer.” He says.
He holds my hands away from the wall as I peer at it.
In tiny sharpie, there’s a date.
“That’s when time will end.”

national book lovers day!!!!

today, i have just learned, is national book lovers day!!!!

yes, it actually needs that many exclamation points.

soo, to celebrate this monumental day, i want everyone else to celebrate it!

so here’s how it will work:

if you read this post, and you have a blog, reblog it.

and add your method of celebration


examplette reads this. she knows that she has a blog. she reblogs this on her blog, and adds her method of celebration, right before the display of this post.

“my method of celebration is going to be to read the first 5 books in the nancy drew series!” examplette says. then follows the repeat of this post.

now, let’s say that exampleman reads examplette’s post, and reblogs that one.

he adds his method of celebration at the top as well.

“my method of celebration is going to be to read my favourite book again!”

and so whomever reads his and has a blog post posts, with their method of celebration.

make sure to comment on the post you are reblogging. that way, two people don’t repost the same post. that makes things complicated.

this chain runs from today to next Thursday, one week.

i hope to turn this into an annual thing, the


so take this post into the world, and let everyone have a great national book lovers day!!!!

and if you participate, feel free to display the above image on your blog.


CWWC Challenge 2

my story is mina’s, from the last story. how she came to be on that bus.

i used all the prompts, and i am a narnian.

I heard my sister’s scream before I had even gotten onto my street. I was riding my bike back from the park.
I had left her alone after school, because she was fourteen. She was going to work on her history report, she told me.
That was my mistake.
Our street was two neat rows of old, dirty, falling-apart houses. Each painted in various shades of gray, blue, beige, dirty white, or brown
But our front walk was different, today, while all the other houses stood just as dirty and in need of repairs as before.
Everywhere, there was blood.
I saw bodies as soon as I opened the door, my hand shaking stubbornly.
My brother, Joel, had his eyes wide open, standing up straight and rigid against the wall, one ankle shackled and bound with a chain to the wall, a bullet hole in his chest.
He was dead.
His best friend Wes was lying on the floor on his stomach. He wasn’t breathing.
Suddenly, something whizzed right to me, and drove into my leg.
A bullet.
The world became a blur, a whirling dream of pain and sudden lightheadedness, and as my blur on reality began to fade to black, I saw my assailant.
It was a man I didn’t recognise, wearing dark jeans and a gray sweatshirt, and a black ski mask. Wearing a ski mask wasn’t all that uncommon here in Vancouver.
Arms threw themselves over the man’s neck, and he dropped his gun.
As everything started to more rapidly fade away to endless blackness, I heard another gunshot, and my sister’s face.
“Mina!” She rasped.
“Beck! What happened? Are you in pain? We need to get you to the hospital!” Suddenly, I sounded like my mom.
“Me?! I wasn’t shot! I only knocked the gunman unconscious after I missed my bullet, he’ll be awake soon! YOU need to get to the hospital!”
“Beck, where are Mom and Dad?!” I half-yelled, half-rasped. Beck’s ketchup-red curls were becoming a fuzzy blur.
“They’re dead, Mina.”
The blackness started to close in quicker as I began to panic. Began to freak out. Began to pass out.
“Hold on!” Beck screamed.
Then I saw him. The gunman. Holding his machine of death over Beck. Finger on trigger.
With sudden adrenaline rushing through my veins, I leaped up, whipped the gun around, and fired it at the man.
He collapsed, dead instantly.
“Beck.” I whispered. “Tell them my story. Our story. Don’t let it end like this for others. Tell them I said something, no matter how faint it was.”
“Mina…?” Beck choked out, far away from me.
I heard faint sirens in the distance, and dark spinning was all I saw. And then there were voices. Footsteps.
Then nothing.

CWWC challenge one

i’m so excited for cwwc!!! πŸŽ‰πŸŽ‰πŸŽ‰πŸŽ‰πŸ˜πŸ˜πŸ˜πŸ˜

i used all the prompts, and i am on team narnia

The bus was always moving.
Always a house of torment for the introverted, friendless, and unpopular kids, but a life of fun, and happiness, in the world outside. You break one of the Government’s horrible, unneeded, tiny rules, you go on the bus, deprived of fresh air, no matter how sooty it might’ve been, and you breath thin, horribly disgusting air, always ten degrees below zero, always smelling of five-week-old tuna fish and rotten eggs.
You can’t leave until your USB arrives.
Your USB will plug into your head and make it so that you are controlled by the Government.

You can make friends on the bus, and you should, because you’ll be on there for a good seven to twenty years, because the USBs take that long to make. They’ll move you to a different bus when you reach the age cutoff for the bus you used to reside on, but that is all.
You’re stared at by the friendless, and extroverted. You’re constantly being sat next to by random strangers who want off this bus, but you always stay quiet and don’t engage.
Later, you write their name, birthday, and death date in your black book, and write at least a page for everyone who ever steps foot on the bus.
Take Eva Parkers, age 7, born 2009, to die in 2100, on page 187, who had the biggest, most beautiful brown eyes and smooth, dark skin. She was fighting the officers as they tried to get her in the bus, screaming so loud that the bus driver (page 2) had to get Cancellers for his ringing, aching ears during that particular stop.
She had killed a man because he tried to kill her.
You wrote her age when she got on, and she looked at you, her wounds bleeding, her poor, thin stomach growling angrily.
Yes, you tended to her wounds, but then just kept fiddling with your old IPhone, trying to make it work, parts spread across the torn leather bench seat, ignoring her silent pleas for friendship.
Or Gabriel Hudson, age 14, born 2003, to die in 2084, on page 437, who didn’t struggle. He had been arrested for killing his abusive mother, and though it had been proved that it was an accident, he had been sentenced to bus wait and USBing.
He was Hispanic, charming, and handsome, and funny. He liked you, liked you.
You just ignored him and wrote a page.

It’s been two weeks, you figure. And then, a miracle happens.
“Everyone off!” Came the bus driver, over the loudspeaker. “I ain’t complying with the Gov’ment. Y’all can skedaddle. Y’all get caught, you say that the bus exploded. I’ma see to that once y’all are off. This bus thing, and the USBing, has got to stop.”
The old, weather-locked doors creaked open, and everyone rus out to inhale the deliciously cool and clean air.
You grab your book and bag where you keep your broken IPhone, and run out. The fresh air fills your lungs, relieving the poor organ’s struggle, and you look around.
The bus has no windows except for the windshield, and the bus driver is separated with a wall, so nobody knows if it’s night or day, unless another person is loaded on.
It’s night, and you quickly identify the place as Arbreoa Gardens.
The garden of rebels.
Suddenly, the bus explodes, throwing you and everyone else forward a couple feet. You land on some soft grass.
Then, you see it.
“The gazebo!” You shout.
Everyone who has ever committed a crime knows that the Gazebo is actually a secret passageway, to the underground Rebel headquarters.
You’re the first to reach it, and you tug on the statue’s nose. It suddenly glistens away, revealing a secret elevator.
“Good job, mate!” Yells Mina (page 42), the Australian girl who killed a Government-issued murderer.
You step in, and allow your busmates to get in as well. The large elevator holds all 13 murderers, with plenty of extra room, and it closes automatically when everyone is in.
“You’re a good mate, Ingrid.” Mina says to you.
“Thanks.” You say.

august 2017 bucket list

~ participate in all the challenges ofΒ cwwc

~ draw some more pictures

~ write at least 8 chapters of When It All Comes Crashing Down

this is a novel I’m writing, details are classified until the first draft is finished

~ finish Chosen

chosen is the novella i wrote for camp nano this month. i met my goal, but i still have a tad bit of story left

~ post at least 20 things on this blog

~ post a summer playlist

inspired byΒ loren’s post

~ get a new string for my ukulele

i broke the first string the same day i got it. 😬

~ learn a chord on my ukulele

~ post a google translate song

what are your goals for august?

welcome to the girl with auburn hair.

if you’re reading this, then it means that you’re at lest the tiniest bit curious about this blog.

or, you’re curious about me.

i’m Blue.

things i will be posting:


doll photoshoots (i own 1 ag doll, 1 madame alexander, 2 og, 1 dac, plus a pile of barbies)

regular photoshoots

ukulele things maybe


thank you for choosing the girl with auburn hair, and enjoy your experience.

(also plz follow just ‘cuz πŸ˜‰)